


Grace

by IMelopsittacus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss, POV First Person, Reunion, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:36:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMelopsittacus/pseuds/IMelopsittacus
Summary: Some scenes frome Grace's pov.





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged for character death, because I know Harold isn't dead, but Grace doesn't know that. Please, let me know if I need to tag anything else.

I clutch a small bouquet of flowers to my chest, barely noticing the cold wind freezing my fingers through my gloves. They're his favourites.  _Were_ , they were his favourite. A small sob escapes me when I realise my mistake. 

The pastor is praying, but his beautiful words offer me little comfort. I try not to cry, but it’s useless, my grief is still too raw. Warm tears trail down my cheeks and drip onto the flowers. His favourite flowers. 

When the sermon is over, the pastor offers me a few words of sympathy before leaving me to grieve in private. I’m alone, standing at his grave. I’m the only one who came to say goodbye and it makes me grieve even more for him. If only there was one other person in his life, someone he could call a friend. He told me he was a very private person, but I never really understood exactly how lonely he must’ve been. 

Part of me wonders about all the things he didn’t tell me, all the things he  _couldn’t_ tell me. It doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does. I just lost the one person who meant the world to me, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to go on from here. My life doesn’t seem worth living anymore without him beside me. 

 _Oh, Harold! I miss you, i_ _t_ _hurts so much._

I don’t know how long I stand there, at his grave. I’ve lost track of time thinking about him, me— _us_.  

I think about the first time we met. I can’t help a small smile remembering the way he just stood there, eating an ice-cream cone—in the middle of winter! His quiet but happy “Hello.” A shy smile accompanying that little word, rosy cheeks from the cold. 

He seemed genuinely interested in my art. It was only later that I realised that that wasn’t the only thing he was interested in. My heart gives a painful squeeze at the memory. 

We connected so well on so many subjects; we spent hours talking about art, travelling, and places with great food. We went for long walks, visited every art exposition we read about, and tried every restaurant we could find. It was as if we were one; he was everything I ever hoped to find in another person. 

I was never good at trusting people. The things that happened in my past- no, I won’t think about that. I did like my solitary life; it gave me the security that those things would never happen to me ever again. I felt safe, even if I did feel lonely at times. 

Then there was Harold. He showed me that there are people out there who can be trusted, who can connect you to the world and yet keep you safe.  _Safe_ , I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again with someone else. 

He was always so thoughtful. I smile again as I vividly remember the treasure hunt for my birthday. Leaving me all those notes to follow through the city, collecting all these little treasures along the way. The flowers, the ice-cream. It finally led me to one of my favourite places: the Guggenheim museum. It was already dark when I arrived, visiting hours long over. The security guards let me in when they saw me, it was all so amazing. And then Harold showed up with a big smug grin on his face. I knew in that instant that I absolutely loved,  _love_ , him for the rest of my life. 

Harold took me on a tour of the museum that night; just the two of us. And then he gave me the best birthday present anyone has ever given me: a chance to quietly enjoy the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen in my life. Another pang of grief, but mixed with love this time. 

I don’t think Harold even looked at any of the paintings that night; his hand gently holding mine, his eyes lovingly on me the entire time. In the end we spent the evening wandering through the museum, hand in hand, just enjoying each other’s company. 

It was the best birthday I ever had and I told him so when we were leaving the building. He blushed a nice crimson, suddenly all shy. It gave him the courage to decide that he wanted to tell me about himself, about his past. We sat down to talk, but I could see he struggled to open up, to tell me things that he never told anyone before.  

It was painful to watch him force himself say things that he might regret later, so I stopped him right there. I didn’t care, I still don’t, we all have secrets we need to keep. He already showed me everything I needed to know about himself. From here on, we would find our own way together. I told him so and his eyes lit up, full of love. He kissed me, and I him, at last able to express our feelings. I think we both found our one true love. 

Standing at his grave, remembering his life, I let my tears fall. It’s good to have something of him, even if it’s just memories. However painful they are, they’re all I have left. 

Four years; we had four years together. Four wonderful years. I won’t lie if I say that they were the best years of my life. Of course, there were things we didn’t really share, we both had our own interests, but we trusted each other—we supported each other. We loved,  _love_ , each other. 

He did seem to struggle at work sometimes. He wouldn’t really talk about his job, but I could tell it was eating at him at times. I can’t say that I understand what it is that he did, but I did try my best to be there for him; just like he encouraged me in my art. His mood would always brighten after we talked and he would be happy and, dare I say, playful again. 

One day I asked him to pose for me in the park, which he willingly did. I could see him contemplating a difficult subject, but I knew he’d come around when he figured it out. In the meantime, he made a wonderful and beautiful model for my painting. Sitting still for hours on end was somewhat of a speciality of his. 

At long last, he did stir. He roused himself from his thoughts and stood up. His mouth had this determined set that he gets,  _got_ , when he made a decision. With a little knowing smile, he put our phones into my paint box, took my hand, and gently guided me deeper into the park, away from the people around us for some privacy.  

I still can hardly believe what he did next. My heart clenches at the memory. I sob and a smile at the same time. He sat me down on a large log, handed me a book, and when I opened it, he went down on his knees for me. Inside the book was a small box with a beautiful ring in it. I was so shocked, I barely heard his words. I never thought he’d wanted to marry me,  _me_. I said yes, of course. I loved, _love_ , him for the rest of my life. My heart will always belong to him. 

We spent the rest of the day together; talking, laughing, making plans for the wedding; I remember it involved a lot of kissing. It was the happiest day of my life. 

Two weeks later our lives ended.  

There was some sort of explosion at the ferry dock. They said it was a terrorist attack. I don’t know, all I knew was that Harold was supposed to meet someone there. Of course, I rushed over as soon as I heard the news and I couldn’t reach Harold’s cell. I was shocked when I saw the horror of what happened. 

Not every victim was accounted for; some were lost to the water of the harbour, some were sent to different hospitals. I was finally directed to a triage centre, but I couldn’t find him among all the other injured people. Deep in my heart I knew that if he was alive, Harold would’ve found a way to contact me. After a long day searching, whatever hope I had left was wiped away when I found the book that he used to propose me with.  

Finding that book was like someone punched me in my stomach. I wanted to die right then and there. Part of me didn’t want to believe he was dead, part of me knew better. For a long time, I just stood there with the book in my hand, unable to breathe, unable to fully understand what happened. I don’t know how I got home after that, how I made all the arrangements necessary.  

The wind has thoroughly chilled me to the bone and with a shiver I rouse from my memories. The reality of what happened comes back rushing in. I hold back another sob and dry my tears. I gently lay the flowers, Harold’s favourite, at the foot of the wooden cross over his grave. It still hurts so much that they never found a body, but I needed something to come back to, to grieve. 

A few steadying breaths and I’m finally able to take the first step away. Away from the grave, away from  _him_. I don’t know how I’ll survive without him, but I have to try. Harold would want me to, even though my heart breaks every time I think of him.


	2. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll probably notice some mistakes, but I really didn't want to rewatch certain episodes again right now, sorry.

I follow the flight attendant to my seat. He walks all the way to the front, past business class, to first class. I’m still so shocked about everything that happened, that I’m not even surprised. He guides me to a spacious seat with a lot of privacy and legroom. I still don’t understand how they arranged to have me on this flight so soon. 

After storing my few belongings in the overhead compartment, I sit down and look around. Apparently, I’m the only first-class passenger on this flight. I’m glad, I’m still too anxious to have too many people around me.  

I stare out of the window and think about everything that happened to me in the past days. All because of Harold. My Harold, who passed away just four years ago. I think back on my life since I buried him.  

Day after day, I struggled to go on, to live. The first days were the worst, when I didn’t even want to get out of bed. I forced myself to do the things I needed to do. Eat, drink, even take a shower once in a while. I was so numb, nothing gave me joy; everything reminded me of  _him_. Not even my art brought me relief. 

Days turned into weeks, into months, and slowly I found new routines, new things to get me through the days. Every now and then I saw,  _see_ , him from the corner of my eye. A glimpse in a mirror, a face in the crowd, a reflection in a window. Every time my heart leaps, but every time I turn my head to look closer, there is nothing. Just a stranger resembling my lost love. 

For a long time, I couldn’t even bring myself to sort his belongings; his scent on his clothes brought both pain and happiness I couldn’t bear to part with. Harold would want me to be happy, so I did my best to go on, to live my life. Gradually I did find happy moments again; fond memories, beauty in little things around me. I’ve been lucky so far that my art sells well. It was one thing less to worry about.  

One day, a tall dark-haired detective came to our home. For a split-second my heart jumped, they found him. But no, he came here for another case. After two years, it’s probably been too long to find anything anymore. Even so, the memory of hiss loss still hurt deeply. I wondered if the pain would ever fade. We talked about Harold for a little while when the detective saw our photo. He looked like he too lost someone dear to him, and he offered his condolences before leaving.  

The expected pain at that memory doesn’t hurt so much anymore; I guess pain does fade a little over time. Now, four years after Harold died, my life has turned upside down—again. 

The flight attendant rouses me from my memories, reminds me to buckle in, we’re about to leave. A few minutes later, the signs light up and the pilot wishes us a good evening and a good flight. Ten minutes later, the force of the acceleration pushes me into my seat. 

The climbing plane reminds me that I am actually here, flying to Europe—to Italy. To a new job, a new  _life_. I think about everything that happened to me the past weeks. 

One day I received a message from an art gallery in Italy. They invited me for an interview for a position. I accepted of course, it’s a once in a lifetime chance, and I needed a change in my life.  

I didn’t mean for it to be this rigorous of a change.  

On my way to the airport, all of a sudden, Detective Stills and his colleague escorted me out of the waiting cab and took me a police precinct. They said something about someone being after me. I didn’t,  _don’t_ , understand why. What would anyone want from me? I’m just an artist, not some government spy or something. 

They settled me in a room until they could get me to a safe house. Apprehensive of the whole situation, I looked around. There was a missing person poster with Stills' name on it, but it had a photo of a different man on it. It made me suspicious, so I wanted to leave, go to the real police. Out of nowhere, a woman who I thought was a children’s book writer but isn’t, scared me into staying. Apparently, there are other people who want to abduct me too. I didn’t know what to think, after all, they kidnapped me first. 

The man I knew only as Detective Stills and his people decided it was safe enough to take me to an actual safe house. They never told me why I was in trouble, what  _they_ wanted from me. On the way there, we were in an accident with another car. A man came and grabbed me, pulled me into another car, leaving Detective Stills and his colleague to their fate.  

I don’t remember much of that ride, all I know is that I wondered if the detectives were safe. I hoped they weren’t hurt in the accident. They put me in a dark cell; a rather chilly and uncomfortable hole really. I shiver, I never want to go that place again. 

Then they brought me to a room, an interrogation room. Just like something from the movies, complete with a table and uncomfortable chairs. Finally, an older man brought me tea, which I didn’t accept. I mean, really? He settled himself in a chair, and started asking all sorts of questions about me, my family, my past. He seemed to know everything about me. I was terrified of the amount of information they had,  _have_ , on me. What could he want from me? Would he hurt me,  _kill_ me? The fact that he works for the government, didn’t help at all to quiet my fear. 

Then he started asking very personal questions. About my private life. About Harold. About how Harold might’ve been lying to me.  _Me_. Poor dead Harold. He couldn’t even defend himself anymore against the lies that man told me about him. At that point I snapped and told that horrible man what  _I_  know about liars, how I can spot their lies, and that Harold never lied to me. It didn’t occur to me that reacting like that might’ve been unwise, but nobody talks about Harold like that. 

After my outburst, the man didn’t say much more. He left me alone and after a long time I found myself blindfolded in the backseat of a car. I was scared to death. Were they really going to hurt me,  _kill me_? Dump my body somewhere? It was the longest ride of my life. 

It seemed like a very long time before they pulled over and let me out of the car. For a moment I was absolutely sure that this was my end. Then, with a stern warning not to remove the blindfold, they turned me in one direction and told me to walk in a straight line. 

Halfway, I lost my balance and stumbled. Before I could fall, a stranger caught my arm. Gently steadying me, waiting for me to regain my balance. We didn’t exchange words. Even though I couldn’t see anything, it was a familiar presence. I don’t know if it’s because they interrogated me about him, but the man reminded,  _reminds_ , me of Harold. Of course, it couldn’t be him, because Harold is dead. Still, he felt familiar. Strange, how often I’ve been thinking about him in the past few days. 

Before I could thank him, the man let go of me. I could hear his uneven footsteps disappearing in the direction I came from. He sounded just as scared as I felt, his breathing short and shallow, just like mine. My heart grows cold at the thought of what they’re going to do to him.  

Finally, another pair of hands grabbed me, guided me into a different car. I didn’t dare take the blindfold off, but when we were well underway, Detective Stills took it off for me. I was so relieved to see his face, to know that I was safe. To know that he and his people were safe. 

Then he handed me an envelope. The detective talked about how the Italians accepted my application, a new name, protection, never coming back. After letting me pack a bag again, he took me to the airport himself this time. Just as he was leaving, I asked Detective Stills if he had known Harold. He told me that he knows I loved Harold and Harold loved me back. The look on his face made me want to cry. I didn’t know him or his personal life, but he looked so wistful, it broke my heart for him. 

The plane has reached its cruising altitude, and the seatbelt lights go out. I take my bag out of the compartment and retrieve the envelope. Among the papers inside is a passport, a one-way ticket to Italy, and enough cash to get me settled comfortably. The new identity is something I have to get used to, but I’ll manage. I’m ready to go on. I smile a little, Harold would be proud of me.


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace and Harold get a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to keep this chapter in the same style as the previous chapters, but since we didn't get to learn what happened after Harold and Grace met again, the story got away from me.

Walking through the city, I enjoy the beautiful autumn day. Sunny, not too warm; a perfect day for painting. Inspiration stirs at all the beauty surrounding me; after all these years, I’m finally able to really paint again with my heart. Harold would be so proud of me. 

When we talked about travelling, Harold would always fondly remember his trip to Italy. He loved,  _loves_ , it here. Being here myself, I completely understand why; even though I’ve only lived here for a year, I’ve already fallen in love with this country. All those beautiful ancient villages, the kind people, the warm climate. Italy is so different from America, there’s so much more history to be found in every little town here. 

Wandering through the narrow streets, I find myself in the most beautiful part of town. I think I’ll focus on a cityscape today. I set up my easel on the terrace of a small cafe, overlooking a beautiful piazza. The view is stunning and it happens to be the exact place I met Harold. 

The last time I was here, I wasn’t as happy as I am now. I was working on a painting, but my heart wasn’t in it. Even though it was five years since I lost him, I still hadn’t moved on—not really. Five years, and I still loved,  _love_ , him so much.  

_Oh, Harold my dear, I wish you were here._   

Shaking off the bittersweet memories, I focus on my painting again. Trying to immerse myself in this moment, study this incredible view. Drawing the outlines, mixing the colours, preparing the brushes; the familiar creative process is like a meditation. I let my mind wander.  

Ever since my harrowing experiences that made me leave New York,  _leave Harold_ , I’m more careful of my surroundings. Pay a little more attention to people around me, a little less trusting of strangers. That’s probably the reason that I felt that I was being watched. Just a little disturbance in the flow of people, something slightly off. Nothing threatening, but still, part of me stayed alert. 

Thinking about New York unnerves me and distracts me from my work. Taking a little break, I order an espresso, and sit down to watch the people around me. The hot cup of coffee and the warm sun drive away the chilly thoughts, reminding me of all the beauty around me. 

There, that’s the corner where my attention was drawn to, the last time I was working here. Someone was standing there, inching their way closer to me. I turned around to see who it was, and at first, I thought I was mistaken. That thinking about Harold made me see him. Like I saw him everywhere in the first months after it happened. 

The man staring at me looked like Harold, but his eyes were different: haunted, sad, full of grief. He looked older too, holding himself differently. After a moment, my mind caught up and I realised it  _was_ Harold. 

Even after all those years, all the grief, my heart leapt in my chest at the sight of him. It still does. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I hesitated, overwhelmed by a need to make sure it really was him. I couldn’t go through another loss; I don’t think I could’ve survived another blow.  

The memory makes me smile; a tiny part of my heart already knew in that moment: he came back! 

I remember putting down my paints and brush to take a closer look. Harold kept his eyes fixed on me, as if blinking would make me disappear. My approach made him close the distance. Limping to me, he kept staring at me, uncertain, almost scared. I couldn’t help but smile at him, even though his anguished expression never changed.  

 It  _was_ him! Underneath all the changes, it was still the man I fell in love with all those years ago. 

He stopped right in front of me, hesitant, waiting. I couldn’t contain myself any longer; I needed to make sure he was really here. Closing the distance, I gently reached out to him, wrapping my arms around his neck, hugging him tight—still a perfect fit. This close, he even smelled like I remembered. He froze for a moment, a soft gasp and a sudden tension in his body his only reaction at first. Then he responded, his arms slowly wrapping around me, bringing me even closer to him. I could feel him trembling under my hands. 

Loosening our embrace, I cradled his face in my hands, taking a good look at him. It was so good to see him; my heart sang with joy. I knew I should be angry with him, disappointed, but the look on his face was so haunted that the only thing I could think of to do, was kiss him. Gently, caring, calming. After a moment, he responded; kissing me back with so much emotion, yet so careful, hesitant even. 

After the kiss, I gently stroked his face, leaning my forehead against his, and just enjoyed his presence. His eyes closed and he slowly relaxed infinitesimally; his posture remaining rigid, shifting his weight off his left leg. A few muscles around his eyes and mouth gave away how much pain he’s in.  

There was so much we needed to talk about, but not there, not then. I let go of him, his hands lingering a moment longer before he drew away. There was a glint in his eyes and a smile curved his lips, faint, but unmistakable. A quiet “Hello.” accompanied his hopeful gaze. 

The waiter collects my empty cup, startling me out of my memories. It’s time to get back to work. My painting is actually coming along nicely, I’m making good progress. It will need another layer once this one is dry, so I clean my brushes and settle back to wait for the paper to dry. 

We gathered my equipment and made our way back to my apartment. The way he limped beside me seemed very painful, but neither of us brought it up until we were home. There was so much we had to discuss, but none that we wanted to talk about in public. 

We settled ourselves in my living room. I made him tea, something he never really drank before. After an awkward moment of silence, I just plainly asked him what happened, where he’d been all those years. If I sounded a little bit accusing, he didn’t react.  

It was already dark before Harold finished his side of the story. Some parts seemed hard to talk about, but I don’t think he left much out.  

He told me about his job when we met, this project he was working on, and how he sold it to the government. He talked about the accident that killed his business partner and friend. How he had to go into hiding for my own safety, leaving me to grieve for him. He even told me how they eventually got to me despite him trying to protect me. 

He spoke of his need to do something, to save the people he knew were in danger. Danger that his Machine predicted. I could hear the capital M when he spoke of his Machine. Apparently, The Machine was more, much more than just a computer. I didn’t understand everything he told me about it,  _her_ , but enough to understand just how important his accomplishment actually was. It gave me an idea of the terrible loss he felt after everything that happened. 

He told me about his associates who helped him save people. His story came to a halt when he spoke about John, who I had known as detective Stills. I could barely hear his voice when he told me how he wanted to save John, only for him to actually save Harold’s life, sacrificing his own in the process. 

After that, Harold sat quietly, his story forgotten, a few tears running down his cheeks, still deeply hurt. I silently said a prayer for the man who'd helped save my life. Just listening to Harold’s story, seeing his grief, made me wish that I could’ve met his dear friend for real. 

My heart constricts in grief for Harold and everyone he lost in the past years, I know exactly what he’s going through. I try to distract myself by working on my painting again, but it’s no use, my happy mood has disappeared. Quietly, I gather my belongings to go home. 

I let Harold stay for the night. It was already late at night, and I didn’t think he should be alone, not while he was in this emotional state. He insisted on sleeping on the couch, but I thought that was just ridiculous given his physical limitations. I finally convinced him my bed was better for his back, not to mention large enough for the both of us.  

Even though it felt a little awkward at first, watching him get comfortable was as familiar as if we we'd never been apart. He didn’t show me his injuries, but a grimace gave away an injury when he bent down to take off his shoes. My heart hurt when I saw part of a large scar in his neck disappearing down his under shirt. I pretended not to notice; knowing him, he wouldn’t want any pity. Still, I gave him some extra pillows in case he needed them. 

Of course, we didn’t get too much sleep, we had five years' worth of catching up to do. I listened to his stories, and he lay silently watching and listening to my own. Somewhere during the night, we managed to get some sleep until the morning sun shone through a gap in the curtains and woke me up. 

I remember turning around to find him watching me. His face lit up in a fond smile, his grief in the background for the moment. We lay there for what seemed like hours. We didn’t talk much, just appreciating each other in that moment, no past, no future.  

Inevitably, nature demanded we get up. Harold made me a wonderful breakfast, he always did— _does_. Our conversation skirted certain subjects, neither of us ready for another round of pain. He told me he had some unfinished business, and that he didn’t know how long it would take. Suddenly all shy, he asked me if he could see me again when he came back. 

I thought about that while doing the dishes. At first, I wasn’t sure, I mean, after all these years of grieving over his loss, it still hurt to actually see him. But then again, he wasn’t just my fiancé, he was also my best friend. Someone who understood me completely. Did I want to lose that again?  

Walking home through the beautiful city, I contemplate my decision. I can only hope I did the right thing, I don’t want to get hurt again. It was hard enough to watch him walk out of my door. 

Just when I turn the corner to my street, a taxi pulls away from my house, leaving behind a familiar figure. He turns around and when he sees me and his face lights up in a smile. He looks well. At least, better than before. Like a heavy burden has lifted. 

I guess I did make the right decision.  

I don’t know how things will go from here. We’re not who we were when we first met. Our lives have changed us both. Maybe too much, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, what happens next is something we will figure out together.


End file.
